


Library Love Song

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Misha Collins, Butt Plugs, Library Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pushy Bottom, Sex Toys, Texting, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Misha's thinking is that he could kill his boyfriend (in the most loving way possible) for coming up with this idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Library Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ~temporalranger for her lovely beta-job.

Misha's working on checking in Genevieve's enormous stack of books the first time it goes off—vibrating inside him, waves of warmth flushing his chest, jerking his lungs down to the pit of his stomach, making him gasp right as Gen chances to look up from her phone. She arches an eyebrow at him, asks if he's okay—and that's when everything dies down again. The plug stops its fast-paced shuddering against his prostate and goes still, goes back to just filling him up. Misha blushes, mutters that he's fine, Gen, but thanks for the concern—and all he's thinking is that he could kill his boyfriend in the most loving way possible.

Granted, he could kick himself, too, for agreeing to this—but mostly, he could kill Jensen for suggesting this idea that he got from who even knows where. Probably Jared or the Internet. Or both of them—at least, Misha wouldn't be surprised if it were both of them.

For his own part, Jensen's sitting over by the periodicals, flopped out in one of the cushy, pseudo-armchairs because he objects to doing his writing at a table. Where he's hiding the remote control, Misha has no idea, either, but Jensen's got a clear view of the circulation desk from where he's seated. He has to see it when Misha flushes pink at Genevieve, when Misha's got a long quiet time and ends up scrunching his face until it hurts, and when he startles in the middle of another long period, drops his Norton Critical Edition of _Dracula_ to the table and ends up only seeing a text from Jensen— _your ass looks so hot in those jeans, but y'know, it's better where I can see it_.

Misha sighs, and texts him back, _are you taking a poetry class without telling me about it? that's like some kinda line out of Shakespeare_. It's hilarious, to Misha, because he's the poet of the two of them—Jensen quite exclusively writes prose—and because, seriously, if he's going to insist on playing with a vibrating plug, Jensen could try harder to get into Misha's pants.

 _playing hard to get looks good on you too. you could be nicer about it, though, especially when I'm the one who's got the controller_ , says Jensen's next text, which he makes Misha wait some several minutes for—not necessarily a bad thing, for all it wracks Misha's nerves; Jensen allows Misha enough time to handle checking out a couple books for Gabe—but then he switches on the vibe and leaves it on until Misha's face-down on the table, beating his forehead into his forearms, clawing at his sweater's sleeves, certain he's going to get hard right in the middle of his fucking shift.

But he doesn't. Because Jensen has mercy enough to let Misha do his work without too much interruption, without much more than a brief flash from the vibrator here or there, without much more than the occasional text that's some pathetic attempt at flirting or another. It would be a nice break from Jensen's utter lack of respect for the notion of Misha needing to work right now—except for how truly abominable some of his attempts at flirting are: _shall I compare thee to a summer's day? no because summer's days are muggy and gross and you are definitely neither._ (Misha texts back that he's not in the mood for Jensen to be so insulting in his lack of creativity).

 _well, how about tonight we play with literary references? i'll be petrarch and you can be laura and i'll tell you all about you hot you look with your mouth around my dick._ (Misha texts back that he's not up to snuff on courtly love, but he's fairly sure that it doesn't work that way, but thanks for playing.)

 _hey, you in the jeans. date me._ (and this text, Misha just ignores, leading into a long stretch where Jensen doesn't text him or play with the plug or even leer over at the circ desk when Misha's not supposed to be looking his way.)

Of course, just when Misha has to go and think everything's safe, Mark notices him checking his phone, looking to make sure he hasn't missed anything. There's no one coming up to the circ desk right now, and it's not like anyone's ever objected to student library workers doing their homework while on the job—but checking his phone gets Misha sighed at, earns him a roll of Mark's eyes and a perfectly measured drawl as Mark tells him, "Whatever half-assed flirting your boy-thing wants to get up to with you can wait until later, can't it? I mean, surely, he understands the importance of you actually doing your damn job, doesn't he?"

"He really should, but I'm not entirely convinced that he does." Misha snorts, but keeps his voice completely deadpan. "I mean, Jensen's not on work study. He's never had to hold down a job or anything. I don't think he's getting any financial aid, period. And have you seen what tuition's looking like these days, Sheppard?"

"Not undergraduate tuition, but unfortunately, yes. I have—and point taken. Just… next time, tell your poor little rich boy to hold off on seducing you until you're not on shift. It's one thing for you two to make out in the stacks like everybody else does. It's entirely another for you to act like the no cell phones rule just doesn't apply to you two because you're horny and attractive."

Before Misha can get in a jibe about Mark's somewhat questionable priorities, Mark huffs and ambles back to his own desk. As he sits himself down to answer emails, or whatever else he does as the library's supervisor, he points Misha's attention to the front of the circ desk, back to where Danneel's now standing with a pile of books to rival Genevieve's. As he checks them out for her, Misha manages to ignore Jensen, manages not to so much as think of him—until Danneel's leaving and the vibe goes off again. Until, groaning, Misha drops back into his chair—which doesn't help, just briefly nudges the plug deeper into him—and slouches forward, back onto his folded-up forearms.

His whole face flushes, hot and sick and scarlet, as he tries to even out his breathing, tries to think about really old nuns caught in flaming plane crashes and whatever other unsexy things he can conjure up to kill his own desire, to kill the slick, sticky tug of _needfuckwant_ pooling in the pit of his stomach and clawing around at his insides—but Misha's thoughts all wander back to Jensen. Even when the vibe dies down again, leaving Misha heaving deep, slow breaths and biting hard on his lower lip, he thinks about Jensen, about getting his hands all over Jensen, all over Jensen's body—he thinks about Jensen's muscles flexing underneath his hands, and sinking his fingers into the little roll of belly-pudge, the Freshman Fifteen-Or-So that even now, by junior year, Jensen hasn't fully managed to shake off.

He thinks about Jensen making good on all of this godawful teasing bullshit—and before he can think to stop himself, before Mark can get back from his lunch break and notice, Misha texts Jensen to meet him down by the old card catalog. No one ever goes down there for anything anymore, not since the library modernized and put everything in the computer. They'll be safe down there.

*******

When Jensen rounds the corner, Misha _yanks_ him in close. He doesn't pull or tug, because that might be polite, and he has no interest in being any kind of polite with Jensen right now—no, he _yanks_ Jensen in, flush against him, shoving Jensen's tight t-shirt and his little swell of pudge—the hints of his abs hard beneath it—over and nuzzled into Misha's own slender body. He gives Jensen a moment to breathe—which bites him back rather quickly—one plastic clicking sound and the vibe starts up again, and in retaliation, while he's gasping for dear life, Misha digs his fingertips into the curve of Jensen's ass. Both hands push Jensen in closer, beat his hips into Misha's and beat Misha's back hard into the wall.

First and foremost, because his mother raised him right, Misha yanks Jensen into a kiss—he sucks on Jensen's lower lip, slips his tongue along Jensen's teeth, narrowly misses biting on his tongue for trying to nibble his lip. You never go into anything you feel strongly about without adequate preparation—and since Misha feels strongly about sex with Jensen, some kind of foreplay's necessary. Fortunately, Jensen's into it—he hums into Misha's mouth, tries to suck on Misha's tongue, then twine both of theirs up into some godforsaken mess. Misha raises one hand to scratch up Jensen's back—he tastes like a Coke and a Kit-Kat bar, some combination that's just designed to tease Misha all the more, make him want to kiss Jensen that much more, until someone accidentally wanders down here and catches them.

And Jensen, because he's the biggest asshole in the world sometimes, does nothing but smirk when they separate to breathe. He slides the little black control up out of his pocket and waves it in front of Misha's face— _fucking dick_ , Misha hisses, leaning forward so his voice snakes out against Jensen's skin. _I love you so much, but you're a fucking dick_ —and Jensen snickers at that, flashing his teeth and his lickable dimples—Misha could lick them right now, but instead, he drops back into the wall, rolls out his back as he goes, knocks his hips up into Jensen's and wriggles around beneath him, holds fast so Jensen can't get away, so there won't be any loss of pressure from Jensen's hips down onto Misha's. He buries his face in Jensen's neck, kisses his skin, whining more than he likes as his cock finally— _fucking finally_ —gets hard.

Jensen must feel the erection straining against Misha's jeans, because he flicks the vibrator off again, unceremoniously drops the remote. But he makes no move to do anything about what he's done here, so Misha steals another kiss—and he bites harder on Jensen's lip this time.

"You're such a fucking tease sometimes," he whispers, writhing underneath of Jensen, bucking his hips up into Jensen's again and kneading his fingers into Jensen's ass, holding him so close that there's barely room for breath between their bodies. "Don't get me wrong? I love it. But… make good on it already, Jen? _Please_?"

He both hates and loves the way he sounds right now. He hates sounding so meek, so needy—but he loves the way that Jensen can get that out of him, loves it almost as much has he loves the rough feel of Jensen's hands against his skin. Callouses nudge Misha's t-shirt up, but don't coax him out of it—Jensen chuckles from the back of his throat as he says, _As you wish_ , and drops his hands back to the small of Misha's back, then to his Misha's hips, then finally back up to the waistband of his jeans. Jensen fumbles there, but gets them open soon enough, ghosts his hands down to guide the jeans and Misha's boxer-briefs to mid-thigh—and he pauses here, brushing both hands up and down Misha's thighs—Misha flexes his muscles and grips harder on Jensen's ass by way of trying to tell him to just get on with this already.

He nods, then gasps—his feet come up off the floor before he's even fully noticed how Jensen's hands have moved, how they're holding onto his thighs and trying to get Misha into a better angle—Misha nods again and shifts along the wall, rolling out his back and his hips, tightening his legs around Jensen's waist, fumbles with Jensen's jeans and nudges them away. There's a moment—just one—when he manages to sneak in another kiss, a tender one, sucking softly on Jensen's lower lip again, because those lips of his are tailor-made to do two things: kiss and suck cock—and since something else is in line for tonight, Jensen needs kissing. They've barely separated, but Misha still drops a hand to work the plug out of him, lets it fall to the floor. The leftover lube might mess up the carpet, but the carpet's ugly anyway—and Misha still gets to gasp, then sigh, when Jensen pushes into him.

Misha can't properly rock his hips, not without the risk of falling—God help them, if Jensen drops him—so he tries to guide Jensen's thrusts, get him going harder and deeper and at just the right angle. He tries to bite back on his own orgasm, tries to keep a handle on the heat unfurling in the pit of his stomach— _come on, come on,_ he hisses against Jensen's lips, mostly without meaning to, so certain that he's only thinking it, _just come on, don't let it go yet, don't let it_ —but he's not gonna last much longer. There's no way. Not with Jensen going so deep, so hard into him—not with him grinding his hips against Misha—not with how his heart's pounding and how his lungs clench up—Misha shudders, catches breaths in gasps that all have the familiar stink of Jensen's mouth. Misha clings to Jensen's shoulders, bites on his lower lip and whines as he comes—as everything flashes, flares up, white-hot—he digs his nails into the back of Jensen's neck and takes a deep breath of Jensen's skin.

Jensen's done soon after, and there's not much room for afterglow. Too likely they'll get caught if they wait around. Jensen puts the plug into a ziploc bag for later, pockets it. Misha fumbles back into his jeans, and they wipe the mess off their fingers, onto the carpet.

Well, it's not as though they're the only ones to leave suspicious stains around the library.


End file.
